Daubeney looked steadily at Oscar. He wiped the moisture from his lips. ‘Do not forget that we are friends, Oscar. We know each other quite well, don’t we?’
Oscar looked at him. ‘I believe I know you better, George, than you know me.’
Daubeney laughed and glanced about the table. ‘Elizabeth’s death was an accident,’ he said emphatically. ‘Ask the coroner. Ask the police.’
‘It was no accident,’ said Oscar, putting out his cigarette. ‘It was murder, George—murder most ingenious—murder inspired by a conversation you had on the afternoon of Sunday 1 May at 16 Tite Street—with my wife.’
Daubeney shook his head incredulously. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Oscar.’
‘Oh, but you do, George,’ said Oscar calmly. ‘That afternoon, at our little charitable fund-raiser, Mrs Wilde told you all about the work of the Rational Dress Society. She told you how each year, in London alone, scores of women lose their lives in domestic fires burnt to death in their own homes, on their own hearth-rugs, their clothes set alight accidentally by spluttering candles or falling coals or stray sparks from the grate. What my wife told you inspired you—to murder your former fiancée by burning her to death … You wanted to rid the world of the woman who had ruined you once and might ruin you again. That afternoon, quite innocently, my well-meaning wife suggested to you the perfect means. Constance gave you the idea, George. With my unhappy game, I gave you the opportunity.’
A silence fell as Oscar lit a second cigarette.
‘Mr Wilde,’ said Inspector Gilmour, ‘you appear to forget that when we found Miss Scott-Rivers’s body her house was securely locked from the inside. I know. I checked all the locks myself.’
‘When you arrived on the scene, Inspector, the house was indeed secured from within. But when Mr Daubeney arrived at 27 Cheyne Walk, it was not.’
Inspector Ferris pushed his chair away from the table. ‘Don’t worry, Inspector,’ said Daubeney turning towards him and raising his glass in his direction. ‘I’m not planning to run away. I’ve nothing to hide.’
Oscar’s eyes narrowed as he looked down at the clergyman. ‘You have so much to hide, George—so much. And your genius, if such it be, is to be so apparently open that no one would believe you capable of so much evil …’
‘May God forgive you, Oscar—I thought that we were friends.’ Daubeney shook his head and drank his wine. He was so calm that it was indeed difficult to believe that he might be guilty. He looked along the dining table and smiled at his fellow guests. ‘The house was locked from within, gentlemen. The fire was burning furiously when I tried to break my way in through the ground-floor window. I was beaten back by the heat and the flames. If I could have rescued Elizabeth, I would have done so. That’s the truth of it.’
‘No, George, that’s not the truth of it.’ Oscar turned towards the Reverend Daubeney and gazed at him unflinchingly. Until he had finished his narrative he did not lift his eyes from him once. ‘This is the truth of it, George. At around midnight on Sunday 1 May last, you left the Cadogan Hotel and walked from here, down Sloane Street, across the King’s Road, to the Thames embankment. Steadily, purposefully, you made your way to 27 Cheyne Walk, the home of Miss Elizabeth Scott-Rivers. You saw a light in your former fiancée’s drawing-room window. You knocked at the front door. The lady of the house admitted you herself. Her servants were not at home. She was alone. She told you so—and the moment that she told you so you seized your opportunity. You killed her there and then—in an instant, ruthlessly, remorselessly, in cold blood.’
Daubeney wiped his mouth with a shaking hand. ‘How?’ he asked. ‘How did I kill her?’
‘I cannot be certain,’ said Oscar. ‘I imagine that you strangled her. Her eyes were wide open when her body was found.’
‘This is grotesque,’ muttered Conan Doyle. Oscar’s gaze remained fixed on George Daubeney. ‘It gets worse, Arthur, believe me.’ He leant further towards Daubeney. ‘You killed Miss Scott-Rivers and you dragged her body across her drawing room towards her own hearth. You laid the body by the grate. You then returned to the front door and locked and bolted it securely from within. You went downstairs to the basement and ensured that the door to the front area and the door to the garden were locked and bolted as well.’ Oscar drew on his cigarette. ‘The scene was laid … all you now had to do was go back to the drawing room and light the match—or, with the fire-tongs, lift a piece of burning coal from the grate and use it to set fire to your victim’s dress … You set the poor woman’s body alight and waited for the flames to blaze before making your escape. It was easily done. You watched her burn, and then you broke your way out of the drawing-room window. And the firemen on the embankment who saw you standing on the window ledge simply assumed that you were trying to get into the house, not out of it, because, in the moment that they saw you, that’s how it appeared to them—’
‘That’s how it was,’ said Daubeney urgently.
‘No, George. There was so much broken glass in the area below the window—the window had to have been broken from the inside out, not from the outside in.’
‘It was an accident,’ Daubeney protested. ‘Her dress caught fire!’
‘If her dress had caught fire by accident, George, her body would not have been found by the fireplace. When a woman sees that her dress is alight, she does not remain right by the source of the fire. She runs from it—she tries to escape. Elizabeth Scott-Rivers’s body was found by the hearth because that is where you placed it.’
Archy Gilmour got to his feet and nodded across the table to his fellow officer. ‘Charge him with murder!‘ he commanded.
Oscar laughed. ‘And so much more besides!’ He held up his right hand. ‘We’re not done yet.’
George Daubeney made no attempt to move. He closed his eyes. ‘I do not feel very well,’ he whispered.
‘Take him away!’ barked Gilmour.
Oscar turned towards the policeman. ‘There’s more to be told, Inspector—if you’re inclined to hear it.’
‘Haven’t we heard enough?’ asked Conan Doyle.
‘We’ve heard enough to hang a man, for sure, ‘said Oscar. ‘We’ve heard the “what”, Arthur; we’ve heard the “how”. We’ve not yet heard the “wherefore”; we’ve not yet heard the “why”.’
I looked up at Oscar. ‘Surely he murdered the poor woman to retrieve his fortune—to inherit hers … ‘I said.
‘No, Robert. At the time that Daubeney killed Elizabeth Scott-Rivers, he assumed that she had changed her will. He did not kill her for her money— that came as an incidental bonus. He killed her to exact his revenge—and to silence her. She knew his secret.’
‘We all have secrets, don’t we, Oscar?’ giggled Lord Alfred Douglas, reaching across his brother to Wat Sickert and stealing a cigar from Wat’s coat pocket.
‘We do,’ said Oscar quietly. ‘Elizabeth Scott-Rivers discovered her fiancé’s secret a week before the day intended for their wedding. At once, privately, she broke off their engagement. Shortly afterwards, publicly, she sued him for breach of promise and, in the process, ruined him. He said nothing in his own defence. Why? Why did George Daubeney—a supposed gentleman, an apparently eligible bachelor, the son of an earl, a man of the cloth, an assistant chaplain at the House of Commons—why did he accept the humiliation and ruin that this breach of promise action brought upon him? Because he had no choice—because he had a secret.’
‘There’ll be a lady in the case,’ murmured Bram Stoker. ‘There always is.’
‘Or perhaps a young man,’ suggested Charles Brookfield. ‘Oscar has some funny friends.’
‘What is this secret, Oscar?’ demanded Conan Doyle impatiently. ‘Come on, man. Don’t play with us. Spit it out.’
Oscar held his head back. Two thin blue-grey plumes of smoke rose from his nostrils. ‘George Daubeney is a trafficker in child prostitutes,’ he said. ‘He has a speciality: young girls. He sells virgins—at five pounds a piece.’
Daubeney said nothing. He sat in his place, his head now in his hands. Inspector Ferris stood immediately behind him.
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Arthur Conan Doyle.
‘Because of the cuff-links,’ said Oscar, simply.
‘The cuff-links?’ repeated Willie Hornung.
‘The cuff-links.’ said Wat Sickert, quietly.
‘Yes, Wat,’ said Oscar, looking at the artist. ‘The cuff-links.’ Oscar’s eyes ranged around the table. All but George Daubeney had their gaze fixed on him. ‘At the Socrates Club dinner I happened to notice that the Honourable the Reverend George Daubeney was wearing unusual cuff-links—cufflinks that did not match. One was a simple silver cuff-link, undecorated, unremarkable, but the other was exquisite. It was a cuff-link with an enamel facing that featured a reproduction of a favourite painting of mine: a Madonna by Bellini. When I next saw Daubeney—a few hours later, when he found his way to my house in Tite Street in the aftermath of the fire the cuff-links were missing. He had removed them. I wondered why.’
Oscar paused and held the moment. He looked at Wat Sickert expectantly. Wat ran his fingers along his moustache and said nothing. Oscar went on: ‘On the night of the Socrates Club dinner I had been especially struck by George Daubeney’s Bellini cuff-link because I knew someone else who had a pair of cuff-links not unlike it … a friend, my friend our friend—the artist, Walter Sickert.’
Oscar stretched out his left arm in Wat’s direction. Sickert leant urgently across the table.
‘I bought the cuff-links from Daubeney, Oscar—I told you that when I gave them to you.’ He looked around at the rest of us. There was a sudden desperation in his eyes. For a moment, he seemed quite frantic. ‘The cuff-links featured Leonardo’s painting, The Virgin of the Rocks. Oscar admired them, so I gave them to him. No, that’s not true. I sold them to him.’
‘For five pounds,’ said Oscar.
‘Yes,’ answered Sickert, ‘for five pounds. That’s what I had paid Daubeney. That’s what I told you.’
‘You told me that the cuff-links had cost you five pounds …’
‘They did,’ cried Sickert. ‘They had!’
‘But you did not tell me, Wat, that when you bought the cuff-links from Daubeney for five pounds Daubeney promised that the cuff-links would be delivered to you personally by a special messenger—a child of thirteen, a young girl, guaranteed a virgin …’
Sickert pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I did not touch her, Oscar. I swear to it. I wanted her as a model nothing more. I wanted to paint a girl on the brink of womanhood. I wanted to paint a virgin—a true virgin. That is all.’
‘You undressed her?’
‘She undressed herself. I did not touch her. Believe me, Oscar.’
Oscar smiled and lit yet another cigarette. ‘I believe you, Wat. You are my friend and I know you to be a gentleman. And, strange as it may seem, in this matter I’m indebted to you. You sold me those cuff-links because I took a fancy to them and I’m glad that you did because, by chance, I wore them on the day that Robert Sherard and I visited the French Bookshop in Beak Street. George Daubeney was there. He saw me wearing the cuff-links. And he assumed that I, too, was a man in want of a five-pound virgin …’
‘Well, well …’ murmured Charles Brookfield.
‘Last night, Daubeney invited me to Beak Street and took me to an upstairs room and introduced me to a little Spanish-speaking girl called Rosa. She was the prettiest child. She had round black eyes and long eyelashes like a baby giraffe’s. She can have been no more than eleven or twelve years of age. Daubeney said she was newly arrived from Mexico. He called her “Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe”. He said that he had “examined” her and that her young breasts were “newly formed and quite, quite perfect”. She was “hairless”, he assured me, and “blemish-free”. He had a certificate from a reliable midwife guaranteeing her virginity. He told me that the child’s maidenhood was mine for five pounds— and that I would receive the most charming cufflinks as a souvenir of our encounter.’
‘My throat!’ cried George Daubeney, lifting his head from his hands, ‘My throat is burning. My neck is swollen.’
‘Your neck will be broken soon enough, sir,’ said Inspector Gilmour of Scotland Yard. ‘Get him to his feet, Ferris. Take him to the growler. Get the men to keep him in the wagon till we’re done here. Tell them he’s to be charged with murder. Don’t mention this other business. We need him to survive the night.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ANSWERS, ANSWERS
Alphonse Byrd returned to Oscar’s side with a fresh glass and the small decanter of yellow wine. ‘You’ve not touched your wine, Mr Wilde,’ he said.
Oscar smiled and rested his hand on the club secretary’s arm. ‘Forgive me, Byrd. I gave it to Daubeney. I felt his need was greater—under the circumstances.’
‘Will you take some now, sir?’
‘Thank you just half a glass.’ He turned to the waiter who was standing by the sideboard. ‘Make sure everyone has all that they require—if you would be so kind. And then join us at the table.’
‘The waiter is to join us at table?’ asked Heron-Allen, with an amused look on his pale face. ‘I admire your democratic impulse, Oscar.’
‘It’s all happening tonight!’ cried Bosie Douglas, raising his glass towards our host.
Charles Brookfield leant across to me and murmured, ‘Am I right—Oscar’s always had a liking for the lackey class?’
‘It’s not a matter of democracy,’ said Oscar benignly, resuming his seat and holding his glass of wine up to the candlelight. ‘It’s a question of superstition.’ He looked at George Daubeney’s empty chair. ‘Dinner’s not over and we can’t possibly be thirteen at table.’
‘It’s getting late, Oscar,’ said Conan Doyle. ‘Are we not done yet?’
Oscar put down his glass and offered the doctor his ungainly, boyish grin. ‘You’ll be on your way to South Norwood soon enough, Arthur—I promise. We’ve just a few loose ends to tidy up.’
Conan Doyle put away his timepiece. ‘I take my hat off to you, old friend. You‘ve nailed your man most effectively.’
Oscar inclined his head towards the doctor. ‘However, I might have got there sooner had I listened to you in the first place, Arthur. The moment you clapped eyes on Daubeney you mistrusted him. You told me that he had a weak mouth.’
‘Did I say that?’
‘You did—but, romantic that I am, I was distracted by knowing of his association with the circus! I saw clowns when I should have smelt corruption. He was a chaplain at the House of Commons and a circus padre. The sheer improbability of it so delighted me I was disarmed.’
At the far end of the table, Archy Gilmour was taking notes. ‘When did you begin to suspect him, Mr Wilde?’
‘At dinner, I was puzzled by his show of drunkenness—when I knew him to be sober. I was puzzled, too, by the cuff-links. I guessed that they might be a sort of sign, a symbol, like a club tie but I presumed that his interest was in women not in children. My suspicions were not properly aroused until I saw him with a child a little girl, the sister of a boy who works at the circus. I was perturbed by the way that he touched her. I was concerned when I saw how he cherished a photograph that he had of her— dressed as Cinderella, apparently shedding tears.’
Inspector Ferris, crackling with energy, returned to the dining room. His face was flushed and shiny, though he brought with him a gust of cold night air. The candles on the table dipped and flickered. As the young inspector resumed his seat, between me and Charles Brookfield, Oscar waved to the waiter who was standing in the shadows to join us. The waiter— a large man, clean-shaven and unassuming—slipped quietly into Daubeney’s old seat at Oscar’s right hand. Inspector Ferris, when, noisily, he had pulled in his chair, rubbed his hands together and nodded towards Archy Gilmour with a show of satisfaction. ‘He’s in the growler now—handcuffed. I’ve put three men with him. He’s quite secure—and tot
ally docile. He’s complaining that he’s sick.’
‘He’s sick all right,’ said Charles Brookfield.
‘Desire at the end is a malady, or a madness, or both,’ said Oscar.
‘They whip child molesters, don’t they?’ asked Brookfield.
‘What constitutes a “child” nowadays?’ enquired Bram Stoker.
‘Fifteen and under,’ said Lord Drumlanrig. ‘The age of consent was raised from thirteen as part of the 1885 Criminal Law Amendment Act.’
‘You’re very well informed, my lord,’ said Brookfield, raising an eyebrow. ‘The 1885 Act? That’s the one that puts the buggers to hard labour, isn’t it?’
‘The Act was designed to protect the young and vulnerable,’ said Drumlanrig seriously. ‘Lord Rosebery can claim some of the credit.’
‘Well done, Primrose!’ said Brookfield, raising his glass towards Drumlanrig.
‘I think you’ll find George Daubeney is hanged before he’s whipped, Mr Brookfield—if he’s found guilty of murder, as I suspect he will be. Mr Wilde has made a convincing case.’ Gilmour looked down the table towards Oscar. ‘We’ll need a full statement from you in the morning, Mr Wilde.’
Oscar nodded. ‘Of course, Inspector. Mr Sherard has kept notes. I trust you’ll find them helpful.’
Oscar Wilde and the Ring of Death Page 30